


Piety

by ingridmatthews



Category: Battlestar Galactica: 2003
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 09:30:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ingridmatthews/pseuds/ingridmatthews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Saul Tigh has a religion all his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Piety

In the first few minutes after the schoolteacher declares herself a goddess (Prophet? Goddess? What the frak is the difference?) Saul Tigh thinks he might need another drink. Especially after seeing half the Quorum on their knees in front of her, kissing her invisible ring of power with reverence; the other ones -- the smarter ones -- like Tom Zarek, practically foaming at the mouth in anticipation of the inevitable clash looming on the horizon, not to mention the power grabs just waiting to be made.

To men like Zarek, disorder is a religion all its own.

Too bad for them Saul Tigh isn't a pious man. No, check that ... he does have a religion and it's a monotheistic one.

Tigh's god is named William Adama and he's waiting for him to rise from his sick bay bed and set things right again, once and for all.

Until then, it's Saul's duty to keep the idiots under his command, as well as the idiots who refuse to listen to reason, from crashing down the suicidal slope they're careening toward, dragging the saner parts of the Fleet with them. It's his duty to save them from themselves.

It's what Bill would have wanted him to do.

Back in his quarters, Tigh's hands are shaking badly when he picks up his glass, bringing the hot liquor to his lips. Ellen is passed out in the unmade rack, snoring, red lipstick smeared over the back of one hand, the other one unconsciously rubbing against the sheets in slow circles.

He can't bear to look at her right now, can't bear to stare any longer at the pictures of him and Bill scattered over his desk in accusing disarray.

He needs something more solid than that right now. He needs the real thing.

0o0o0o

The sick bay is quiet except for the hiss of a ventilator. Bill's chest goes up and down in a pantomime of life and Tigh hopes to those gods he doesn't believe in the doctor wasn't lying about Adama's positive chances of survival.

Because if The Old Man dies, Tigh will break that motherfrakker's neck.

He hugs himself as he stares. The Old Man doesn't look any older to him. Tigh can't remember either one of them looking -- feeling -- any differently than they did aboard that crusty freighter where they first met, eventually curled around each other as the stars passed by the portal. No one ever said anything to them -- not that Bill would have tolerated it anyway -- as they were rackmates and rackmates were allowed certain _privileges_.

Privileges that usually didn't extend past the tour, but somehow ... somehow ... Adama hadn't forgotten those nights, as the tour turned into a commission and that commission lasted until, literally, the end of the worlds.

This is an end of a different sort. The end of Saul's dependence on Adama's every utterance. He's already gone through each declaration he can remember through a fog of time and booze, trying to apply all of Bill's words to a situation that's shifting beneath him like the cursed sands of Gorman.

Tigh can barely stand upright on an ordinary day, push him too far in any direction, the chances of him toppling over are good. Better than good.

Tigh knows this. He's not one to fool himself about his leadership skills, which are next to nil. He doesn't want to lead. Some people are born to follow and when one is following the person they love ...

Glancing around, Tigh tentatively takes Adama's hand in his own. It's warm. That's a good sign, if only the bastard would squeeze back.

But Bill always did things in his own time, in his own way and far be for Tigh to push him now. Even though Tigh feels like crawling up next to him on the sick bay rack, hold him tightly against his chest, trying to take every inhale of air for him. Anything to bring him back, anything to relieve the thick ache that's clenching Tigh's chest, making it hard to think.

Making it hard to breathe.

Tigh doesn't have the luxury of a ventilator to do his breathing for him. Doesn't have the luxury of a true leader to do his thinking for him either.

Of course, now _would_ be a fine time for the bitch to declare her godhead. In front of the Quorum, yet! What the frak was he going to do? Democracy was well and good and all that crap -- Adama always believed in it, so it must have some value -- but damn it to hells, this wasn't the time for majority rule, not if the majority was on the verge of losing its collective mind. Or on the verge of staging a coup.

"Damn it, Bill," Tigh whispers, his throat tight. He's angry and frightened and neither emotion is helping very much. "I wasn't supposed to be involved like this. Remember our deal? You're the boss. I do what you say. That was the way it always was, even ..."

Even in bed, he wanted to say, but the old habits of keeping things hidden die hard.

Slipping tears sting, salt and shame against his raw skin. He's too old to be crying like some godsdamned schoolgirl and yet he makes no move to wipe them away.

Instead, he lifts Adama's hand and kisses his fingers one after the other, his lips lingering on the wedding ring Bill still wears. Some people think it's an ode to Caroline's years of faithfulness and in some ways, it is.

But it has another meaning as well. A meaning only the two of them share, along with so many other things.

Except now, there's only one of them to keep the faith going. Tigh can't let The Old Man down, even though he knows in his heart he already has. He listened to Ellen when he shouldn't have, he mistrusted when he should have believed ... he forgot what ship was supposed to be rescued, damn it.

That's all in the past, he thinks with a determination that's not quite as half-hearted as it's been previously. No, he's going to lead them ... lead them hard.

Unfortunately, there's only one way he can think of to do this and that way is going to be the way to Saul Tigh's damnation -- the denial of the tenets of his god.

He remembers the old story taught in school, about the priest who loved Zeus so much he couldn't find a sacrifice that was worthy enough and so stopped making them all together. The rivers dried up, the harvest died on the vine and finally, the people rose up and killed him. As he lay dying, he called to Zeus for help, only to be rebuffed ...

Because merely loving a god is not enough.

Leaning down, he kisses Adama's forehead, his shoulder and his hand for what might be the last time. Maybe one day The Old Man will forgive him, but things will never be the same, not after Tigh does the one thing Adama would have hated with all his heart. Tigh's steps wobble as he leaves sick bay to return to his quarters ...

To write a declaration of martial law that will bring the Fleet to heel, democracy and gods be damned.

o0o0o  
the end

All comments are very welcome. Thanks for reading!


	2. Side By Side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a SLASH story, Adama/Tigh, rated PG-13. Takes place after Episode 2.03.

This is a SLASH story, Adama/Tigh, rated PG-13. Takes place after Episode 2.03.

**SIDE BY SIDE**

**by ingrid**

0o0o0o

"Ellen, could I speak to my XO?"

"Of course ..."

Tigh doesn't pay attention to his wife slinking from the room like a chastised wraith, her mouth and hands trembling. Tigh is trembling too, but unlike Ellen, it's not with fear, as everything disappears from his existence except for Adama. Tigh's heard about visitations from the gods, how they come to people as if they've stepped through a white hot ring of light, but he never believe he'd be a witness to one.

He believes now.

Adama's in pain, but relaxed, sitting at Saul's side, his hand resting comfortably on Tigh's knee. Forgiving, even when Tigh tries to make it clear that he's frakked up and good. Bill drinks a little, smiles ruefully and shakes his head when Tigh hints that things are a huge mess now, with shattered pieces lying everywhere, needing a strong arm to pick them up.

An arm that isn't Tigh's.

"We'll pick them up together," Adama says defiantly, defending Tigh against his own worst enemy -- himself.

Adama's had a lot of practice in this kind of protecting, Tigh thinks, pouring Adama another drink. A small one, because he's still worried about The Old Man's health but for someone who's cheated death only days before, he looks pretty damned good.

Beautiful, in fact and Tigh is amazed at the heat that fills his cheeks. Gods, he's missed him ... missed them.

"Where's my son?" Adama asks suddenly and the world skews terribly to one side.

Slowly, Tigh explains the situation and Adama's forgiving mood evaporates. His jaw tightens into a hard line and Tigh waits for the explosion. Prays for it, but Adama's hand merely tightens on his knee. "We're going to take care of this," he grinds out hoarsely. The Old Man takes a shuddering breath, wincing as his chest expands. "Gods, who knew being shot hurts so damned much?"

Frightened, Tigh grabs his arm. "You need to get back to sick bay. I'll help you."

"You're going to help me get my uniform on."

"But ..."

Adama fixes him with a steely look. "Now."

"Yes, sir," replies Tigh, suddenly giddy with relief. _He's back ... he's back_ ... and everything is going to be all right, he thinks.

No, he _knows_ it's going to be all right.

Adama fits perfectly in the crook of Tigh's arm as they walk to his quarters, discreetly flanked by a pair of hawk-eyed marines who are armed to the teeth. No one is around to gawk at Adama in his robe -- they're all probably watching the transfer of that _thing_ to its holding tank -- and Tigh is grateful for small favors.

Dressing Adama takes a long time, but Tigh feels no impatience. If anything, Adama looks annoyed at his tenderness.

Tigh doesn't pay attention to the eye rolls and sighs. The hospital togs are peeled off, an inch at a time. A crisp uniform is laid out, a plan of action is formulated and the clothes are put on Bill's battered body with painstaking care.

"Cut the crap, Saul," Adama growls at one point, but Tigh is unconcerned.

"Frak you," he replies, rolling up The Old Man's left sock and suddenly, things are like they always were -- wonderful.

All right, not exactly wonderful, but Tigh no longer feels the crushing weight of the universe on his shoulders. It's selfish and wrong to want Adama to bear that weight again before he's recovered completely. It's shameful Tigh couldn't handle the command when needed, but the gods have forgiven him, ridiculous failure that he is. They've given Adama back to him and that's all that matters.

He can handle the shame. He can handle the humiliation. He just can't handle another minute without Bill.

Once the uniform is on, Adama stands, looking as proud and strong as ever. Lines of pain and weariness no longer crease his face. His eyes are clear and sharp and no one would ever guess the terrible trauma he's covering up beneath the cool veneer.

He's Galactica's commander again, in every sense of the word.

It's an awe-inspiring sight and Tigh ducks his head away from it. Staring at the floor, Saul realizes that he doesn't deserve to stand at this man's side. Doesn't deserve him in the any way, shape or form and maybe, if he insisted on a demotion ...

"Saul ..."

Quiet voice, and Tigh shirks further away.

Adama isn't letting him get away that easily. A strong hand tucks beneath Tigh's chin, forcing a meeting of their eyes. "If I go into that bridge without an XO who's living -- and breathing -- the part, I'm going to be half a commander," Adama says. "You need to lift your head up and do this with me, just as we've done everything else. We have to keep our committment to stay together." A gentle pause. "Side by side, Saul."

Throat tight, Tigh shakes his head. "You don't need me to help lead this ship or do anything else. I'm just a frak-up who couldn't steer a kiddie ride over a track, Bill. You'd be better off without me. I'm nothing more than an embarrassment to you."

In reply, Adama kisses him, hard at first, then softening until Tigh thinks his bones are turning into water. "Does that feel like something I'd be better off without?" Breathlessly, and smiling as Tigh slowly shakes his head 'no'. "Good. Now how about shaving? You look like something the cat dragged in."

"Right." Tigh is nodding, head bobbling like an idiot. He obeys, going into the Commander's wash room to clean up. Shaves, brushes his teeth to remove the fuzziness of days worth of drinking and straightens his jacket as best he can. Runs damp hands over the hair that's left and looks in the mirror to try and school his expression into something that doesn't look too pathetic.

"All right," Adama says when he reappears. "Let's do this thing."

"Let's do it," Tigh replies. He falls into step at Adama's side, who strides out of his quarters and down to the lift that leads to the bridge.

In the distance, Tigh can hear a commotion in the halls, loud cries of some sort, but his heart doesn't clench in terror. Not this time. He merely looks to Adama, who shakes his head. "To the bridge. Whatever that is will come to us."

"Yes, sir," Tigh replies, holding open the lift door. They enter and wait for the lift to rise, standing ...

Side by side.

0o0o0o

end

I never mention how much I adore and appreciate feedback, do I? All reviews are welcome.


	3. Higher Ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fandom: Battlestar Galactica - Spoilers for 2.05 "The Farm"

Fandom: Battlestar Galactica - Spoilers for 2.05 "The Farm"

Pairing: Adama/Tigh - **SLASH**

Rating: PG

Summary: Rising from the ashes is harder than he thinks ...

**HIGHER GROUND**

**by ingrid**

00000

After he's made sure Adama is steady enough to stand on his own, Tigh lets go of his elbow and watches his reception in the bridge. Follows everything carefully, because if there are any other _creatures_ waiting to ambush him, Tigh is going to be ready this time.

Ready to throw his body in front of the bullet before it gets anywhere near The Old Man.

What happened that day is not going to happen again. Never, and Tigh is more than willing to stake his life on it. Glad even, to die for him and Tigh stands at stiff attention, his ears and eyes trained on every son-of-a-bitch in that room, watching ... waiting.

The sound of applause and a chant of "Adama! Adama!" thunders in his ears. Tigh takes mental note after mental note, stopping to examine Gaius Baltar a little more closely, those weak hands of his flapping together in little sarcastic movements. The creep's eyes roll at the second wave of chants -- he looks as though he might be happier somewhere else, Tigh realizes with a start ...

Looks as if he'd be happier if Adama were dead.

Immediately, Tigh's temper flares in a crimson burst of heat. In the old days he would have grabbed Baltar by the scruff of his neck and shook him until he showed the proper respect, but the game of life for human beings is far more dangerous now. Tigh can't afford to lose his temper -- not again -- so he reigns himself in with more than a little reluctance.

_I'll deal with you later_," Tigh thinks, turning his attention back to Adama.

He's making a heartfelt speech and Tigh's throat tightens. He means it, Saul thinks ruefully. He loves everyone one of them, even the ones who betray him and gods help us, we almost damned near killed him with our blindness to what was right in front of us.

We don't deserve him -- _I_ don't deserve him, but he sticks with us, no matter what. That's why he's the leader he is and that's why Tigh's damned glad he doesn't have to playact the role of commander any longer. He's perfectly content to be where he is and forever grateful Adama's allowed him to stay there, in spite of all his frakups.

"Let's get back to work," Adama orders and Tigh falls into place, across the main reads.

But Adama seems unsteady. "I feel strange ... like ... closer to the ground."

Tigh swallows past the worry. "You should check in with the doctor."

Adama ignores him, choosing instead to take a quick scan of their current standing and then it's off to find that woman and the scoundrel Adama is forced to call his son. Long ago, Tigh wanted to love Lee, wanted to think that one day they could be friends, but that hope shattered. Now he cares for him only out of love for his father, but by the gods, that boy pushes every last damned button Tigh has.

Tigh likes to think that he's gone too far this time, that Adama will finally lay down the law once all is said and done, but the mysterious relationship of a father and son is never to be understood, he supposes, by a man who's never had children.

Thank the gods for that small favor.

"Mr Gaeta, where do you think they are now?"

"The stolen raptor with Captain Adama and the former President ..."

"The fugitives," Tigh corrects the lieutenant and is gratified when Adama doesn't disagree with him.

But The Old Man's voice falters -- badly -- when he mentions the role his son is playing in this game of chicken between a crumbling government and the only thing keeping the entire fleet from meeting an abrupt and bloody end at the hands of an army of uncaring machines.

Which is the Galactica, as led by Bill Adama. A Bill Adama who's being battered body and soul by those he loves, chief among them his only living son.

_He still loves the boy_, Tigh marvels, even as his heart aches for Bill. _But then again, he still loves me and I've done more to hurt this fleet than Lee has. So far._

Adama orders a search and quarantine operation and Tigh rushes to implement it. This is the one thing he's good at, organizing the troops to follow orders and he revels in the chance not to be a complete frakup on this day.

He has a lot to make up for. Let it start now.

000000

The schoolteacher's announcement comes over the wireless at what might have been dawn over his old barracks on Caprica, at least according to Galactica's universal clocks, those ones still set to Ordinary Time, even though that time is over now, forever.

The message is a mish-mash of Scripture and bullshit and Tigh doesn't bother flinching away from the clipboard an enraged Adama throws across the console after reading it.

Tigh tries to reassure him. "We've got five Raptors with marine fire teams standing by to board the Astral Queen."

"No one's gonna follow her. No one's gonna believe this crap. No one's this stupid," Adama proclaims, his jaw tight. "And anyone who is and wants to make a suicide run to Kobol -- please -- let them."

He's so alive at this moment, so _on fire_, Tigh can't help but simply stare back at him with what he knows is the stupidest, most blatant expression of adoration that's ever crossed his face.

Gods, he loves this man. He loves him with all that he is, all that he ever will be, and if ever comes the day he's forced to love him more, Tigh wonders if he'll be able to do it.

Chances are, however, that he'd find it in himself without too much trouble. Because after all these years ...

Bill Adama never ceases to amaze him.

000000

As it turns out, people are pretty damned stupid, Tigh thinks, wincing at the readouts from Gaeta's console some hours later.

A third of the fleet follows after the fool and her court of jesters, jumping away to Kobol without a thought to the terrible dangers that await them there. Maybe they should have beamed Baltar's and Tyrol's ravaged faces over the wireless upon their return from there, or maybe they should have let that poor little specialist who lost her mind there rave a little while at them, just to show the idiots what they were in for on that toaster-infested deathtrap.

Still, the worst part of all of this is the expression on The Old Man's face when he hears the news.

He's heartbroken. It may have taken half a lifetime of togetherness for Tigh to be able to tell this, but he knows Adama's undone by the news. The Old Man loves them -- loves almost everyone -- in spite of their foibles and there's nothing left to soften the blow over what's happened.

Especially over his own son's betrayal.

Tigh lets Adama go, not running after him as he takes down the gally. He knows better than to stand in Bill's way when he's trying to cool down, but when the minutes turn into over an hour, Tigh goes off in search of him. Through the halls, back to Adama's quarters, hells, even into the munitions rooms where sometimes soldiers like to hide when every other place is booked -- but there's no Adama to be found anywhere.

Questioning a few people finally turns up results and Tigh doesn't bother knocking before entering the ship's morgue. No one ever goes in here, except for the poor saps assigned to body cleanup that day. Tigh is horrified to see Adama sitting on the ice cold floor, his head in his hands, curled up and crying beneath the laid-out corpse of the thing that shot him.

For a second, Tigh is unable to move. He's never seen Adama like this ... so broken and weak. The sight paralyzes him, but only for a moment, as it doesn't take long for his protective instinct to kick in.

He kneels at Adama's side, putting a hand on his shaking shoulder. "She fooled all of us, Bill."

Adama lifts his tear-stained face and Tigh's heart breaks. "But I still care," he sobs miserably. "I still care for her. And Lee. I even care for that idiot who calls herself the President."

"I know you care for them. And that's all right, because it's better than the alternative. Believe me, I know."

Adama makes a bitter sound. "How do you know?"

"Because there's only been one person in my life who's ever touched my heart and without that -- without you -- I'd be even more of a frakup than I am today. It's better to love, for as much as I scorn it, as much as it hurts ... I'm telling you, Bill, it's better to love, even those who would kill you in the end. Because without it, we're no better than those damned machines out there."

Adama wipes his eyes with a trembling hand. Thick desperation fills his voice. "What am I going to do, Saul? What in hells am I going to do?"

For the first time in a long time, Saul is sure he has the right answer. "You're going to come with me to my quarters and have a drink. We're going to talk until there's nothing left to be said and then you're going to spend the night in my bunk with me," Tigh replies firmly. "And I'm going to make you forget about all of this crap, at least until tomorrow."

A few quiet minutes pass. His lips quirk at the corners, but Adama doesn't sound convinced. "What about Ellen?"

Tigh chuckles dryly. "Ellen isn't talking to me this week. Something about me not being man enough to be her husband. She took off for Cloud Nine days ago. I don't expect her back for a while."

Adama contemplates this. Finally ... "We'll go to my quarters."

"Whatever," Tigh sighs. He balances his hand beneath Adama's elbow and lifts him to his feet without effort. Stands there and just _looks_ at him, until pulling him into a close embrace, feeling the tension in Bill's body slowly release against him. Kisses his forehead and hears him whisper ...

"You know why I keep you around, Saul?"

"My gentlemanly charms?"

Adama pulls back to peer solemnly at him. "You always pull me onto higher ground."

Tigh's breath hitches. There's nothing he can say to this, so he doesn't try. Instead, he hooks his arm around Adama's waist and leads him out of the morgue, to the commander's quarters where they might be able to lock the door for the night and forget, if only for a little while.

000000

fin

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